


Between the Neon

by tombs4life



Category: Atomic Blonde (2017)
Genre: F/F, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot Collection, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2018-12-14 12:58:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11783637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tombs4life/pseuds/tombs4life
Summary: Sometimes they look different without the colored lights, and sometimes they look the same.A series of related one-shots told from both Delphine and Lorraine's perspectives.





	1. Control Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Delphine gets a little carried away when she's around Lorraine...or when anyone else is around Lorraine.

“Christ.”

The blonde agent stares down at the bloodied face. I look for a moment, too—at the broken nose, lolled open mouth, unkempt beard specked with crimson—but, mostly, I watch Lorraine watch him. I’m almost sure that her normally stoic face had briefly flashed into a rare sliver of surprise, with both eyebrows raised and her lips pursed. It isn’t long, however, before her gaze shifts over to me, and now the raised eyebrows are meant to evaluate, to quietly question.

My chest is still rising and falling as I catch my breath. “Sorry,” I tell her, although I’m really not. When Lorraine speaks again, her voice is cool and even, but her sharp stare grazes over my face, appraising my expression. I could be imagining it, but she might even appear a little...impressed, in her nothing-ever-really-catches-me-off-guard, super secret agent way.

Well, I _do_ tend to have that effect, I guess.

“You know I’m normally the last one to say this, Delphine, but I think the violence could have been avoided, there.” Lorraine’s countenance has shifted back into unreadable territory. I’m considering feeling bad about knocking the man unconscious, but when I finally take a look at his chubby chin and remember his thick German slurrings and how he’d followed us not one, not two, but _three_ different times tonight, I know that I really can’t feel bad.

Mostly I feel sorry about the blood dripping from the solid paperweight in my hand. It’s a miniature Statue of Liberty that the blonde woman had bought for me only an hour ago, saying something about how it’s fitting because of my ‘French heraldry,’ but there’d been a strange gleam in her eye as she’d said it that makes me think it might mean more to her.

In any case, I’d used it as a weapon, but now, as I hold it up to the dim light radiating from a street lamp several yards away, I can tell that it’s still somehow perfectly intact. It’ll just, you know, need to be cleaned at some point.

I think my lack of remorse is probably etched onto my face. I’ve got my jaw stuck out as I hover over the guy. “He tried to touch you,” I reason, my eyes determined and full of fire. “And before that, he was staring at your ass. Like, all night. He had it coming.”

“I told you to ignore him.” She’s taken on that sort of authoritative tone, the matter-of-fact air that suggests she knows best and, yes, okay, she likely does. But honestly, it had been purely reflex—one moment the bastard had been trailing loudly behind us in the cool city night, having stepped out of the same bar we’d just left, and the next he was right _here_ , the sick pervert, and my arm had automatically reached into my bag and grabbed the paperweight and swung out hard and then, well, he was on the ground. Still is. I’d only hit him in the face, but considering what his blood-alcohol content surely is, it’s safe to say he’s going to be out cold for a little while.

Meeting Lorraine’s gaze evenly, I clear my throat in lieu of speaking. She just shakes her head ever so slightly. The woman is watching me unnervingly—in that way that makes my breath hitch—and as she steps closer, my eyes flicker to her lips and back up a couple of times. “I’m not very good at ignoring things,” I manage to say.

“So,” Lorraine begins, her voice grounding me, “do you believe I can’t handle myself?” The question is so bordering on ridiculous, and _so_ something that I would say to _her_ , that I almost laugh. Actually, I do. A chuckle escapes my lips, a sound which Lorraine doesn’t seem to quite know what to do with, judging from the way her eyes have darkened just slightly. But there is a hint of bemusement in her next words. “And you’re laughing at me now. Wonderful.”

“I’m laughing because you’re the very definition of ‘independent badass,’” I tell her, letting a half-smile grace my face. I know she likes it when I give her that smile. Then, without really thinking, I add, “And because you’re more stubborn than you realize.”

It’s possible I could have worded that better. “Well, you run entirely on impulse, it seems.” Lorraine is chiding me and, although I want very badly for her to understand that I don’t need to be lectured, and that I _do_ often think before I act (just, perhaps, not around her), I also, admittedly, kind of like the way she’d just addressed me. It makes me feel warm in certain places, and I think Lorraine is aware of this. “Did you consider how this might draw attention to us?”

I choose to ignore the question. “I think that you need to learn not to refuse help when it’s offered to you,” I tell her smoothly, continuing our banter. It’s actually a rather ballsy thing to say because now, with the way she has straightened up and is practically looming over me, her face strangely shadowed by the way the street light is falling upon it, she’s even more intimidating than usual. And sexy.

“I don’t refuse help,” the other woman says quietly, “when I _need_ it.”

My mouth is dry, despite the fact that we’re walking back to the hotel from a bar, where we’d each indulged in a couple of drinks. The brisk air, however, is doing its part in sobering me up. “Sometimes,” I begin, drawing a breath, “help comes to you whether you need it or not.” The look Lorraine is giving me makes my heart skip a couple beats. Her lips are parted and her eyes have become near predatory and _god_ , I can’t believe that when I met her the other night, I actually thought I’d be the one in charge.

Not that I still don’t try.

She has closed the space between us before I can say any more. Which is probably a good thing. Then her lips are on mine, tongue already flicking out, and my chest aches in anticipation. The woman’s hands grip my hips roughly, pulling me against her. It’s all I can do to just move my lips against hers in reciprocation, to curl my hand around her jacket collar, to moan softly into her mouth. It’s hard to ignore the lurching feeling low in my gut when her hands slide down to my ass. I gasp without meaning to, and I can’t believe that she’s trying to talk right now—her words are coming out muffled, uttered in between lip crashes. “I hope I don’t cross any lines, here,” she drawls ironically, “because I’d hate for you to use that statuette as a weapon again.”

I chuckle again, breathless, which only makes her slide a hand up my throat and tilt my chin while she slips her tongue into my mouth, in an effort to quiet my sounds. It only partially works. “I’ll let _you_ be handsy,” I breathe. “It’s not harassment if I want it.” My teeth latch onto her bottom lip for a second. It makes her let out the faintest of groans.

Lorraine’s hands are busy exploring my body and I realize it’s entirely unfair that she’s wearing a jacket and I am just wearing a warm long-sleeved top, because she’s a lot harder to access. While the blonde woman has become focused on the process of gliding her hands against my bare torso, which makes me shiver, I’m struggling to simply unbutton her coat. It’s not going very well, _damn this Berlin cold_ , so I instead invest myself in pecking kisses along her jawbone. I press my lips down her neck and lick the soft of her skin languidly and, to my immense satisfaction, it makes Lorraine arch into me.

And then, from below us: “ _Was zum Teufel…_ ”

Bedraggled and groggy, the man on the ground has a hand cupping his nose and the other propping him up off the cement. Lorraine, of course, takes this moment to tangle her fingers in my hair and pull lightly, and I breathe heavily into her neck. It’s so incredibly tempting to just _forget_ , about the man, about this city, about the fucked up situations I’ve been in lately, especially when the other woman does this thing with her tongue that makes me just completely melt into her.

But then the man starts moving around, rocking from side to side on his back. It’s a little distracting, and it should probably be dealt with. Lorraine must be thinking the same thing as she rubs a thumb over my cheek then pulls away to gaze down at the drunkard.

He’s staring at her. “What is this?” he sluggishly demands in English. He sounds disgruntled and annoyed. Heh, yeah—join the club. Before Lorraine can answer him, I gently push myself off of her and then crouch down rather aggressively, getting close to him as he sits up.

“This,” I say, practically hissing my words, “is none of your business.” I deftly grab him by the front of his shirt. “Now, you need to get the hell out of here. You’re nothing but a pathetic piece of—”

Lorraine’s fingers are digging hard into my shoulders. “Have you ever heard of subtlety?” she muses, bringing me back to a standing position beside her. My eyes flash at her. Of course I have—I’m in the same business as her, aren’t I? But this guy doesn’t deserve _subtle_. When it comes to random lowlives who can’t keep their hands to themselves, I have no time for subtlety. 

Especially when those random lowlives are messing with Lorraine Broughton.

With the swift finesse that is characteristic of the blonde spy, Lorraine sidesteps in front of me, takes hold of the man’s shirt once more, and yanks him up and forward until he is standing, too. This seems to wake him up a little. His blurry eyes are trying to focus on her, but he looks like he is having a difficult time. Which, I actually don’t blame him, there—Lorraine can be a lot to take in at once, especially with her narrowed eyes that coldly, systematically evaluate, spotting flaws and checking for weakness. Personally, when those eyes are directed at me, I find it quite the turn-on, but for him...well, I understand why he’s visibly trembling in his ratty jacket and vomit-stained boots.

“Let me see your wallet,” Lorraine demands evenly, holding out her hand. The man, who seems to have lost his gusto, unsteadily reaches into his back pocket and hands it to her. At least, he tries: before it makes it into Lorraine’s fingers, the wallet slips from his own grasp and falls with a plunk onto the cold concrete.

He glances back up at her and, as the woman stares him down without a trace of empathy on her face, he hastily squats, scrapes the leather wallet off the ground, and then pushes it into her hand with a jerking motion. 

Well, at least we’ve ruled out the very slim possibility that this guy’s some sort of agent—he's far too much of a coward.

The woman flips the wallet open and rifles through it, unperturbed. She stares placidly at his license, and then at the only other item within it, a soggy coupon for half-off fried fish. After a moment in which I see her eyebrow arch upward just barely, she shoves the wallet back at him, and his trembling fingers fumble with it. “Go,” she orders. “Leave us alone and get your sorry ass together.”

He doesn’t need more of an invitation. The man trips and then runs while Lorraine and I just stand there, gazing after him. Then I let out a noise somewhere between a frustrated laugh and a sigh. I’m a little miffed at how even-tempered Lorraine is, _always_. I mean, this person had just attempted to sexually assault her. And, worse, he'd actually thought he could do such a thing and get away with it. She can't just be _okay_ with that.

“How are you so...calm, right now?” 

Her eyes meet mine keenly, and she slides her hands into her coat pockets. “Skill of the trade,” she offers, her cool stare flickering over my face. “It comes in handy from time to time.”

The words imply that _I_ need to learn that skill, but I know that she knows I can be calm. And when her hard eyes soften almost imperceptibly, I’m certain a part of her is acknowledging the fact that I had only lost my composure for _her_. “I’m sure it does,” I reply, a little more tersely than I mean for it to sound. I shove my own hands into my pants pockets and begin walking. It takes several seconds for Lorraine to follow, and we’ve traveled a couple blocks before she finally calls after me.

“So I’m guessing we’re not taking the bus tonight?” she quips as we stride right past the stop.

“I have some energy to burn off.” It’s hard for me to not look at her. I feel my head wanting to turn, to watch her watch me again, but I'm also trying to process a few things, my eyebrows furrowed together. Lorraine has silently caught up to me, trailing just behind. 

“You realize I can help you with that,” she intones lowly, teasingly. I ignore the lurch in my groin as I stop in my tracks, finally deciding to face her.

“You don’t really think I’m reckless, do you?” I’m fairly certain I fail at hiding the desperation in my voice, so I stand up taller to make up for it.

The other woman’s mouth twitches. “I never once said that you were reckless. So, you tell me.” 

Silently, I reach into my bag again and pull out the Statue of Liberty, still glistening with blood. Lorraine’s eyes appear momentarily transfixed on the little object, but she brings them back up to my face when I respond. “ _I_ think I just have killer reflexes,” I settle on saying, allowing the smooth, confident humor to return in my voice.

Lorraine, though, seems to sense that I’m craving a real answer. At length, she says, “You put too much heart into what you do.” Her words are plain and candid, because it's not like the older woman to sugarcoat the truth. Quietly, she adds, “It may get you into trouble one day.”

The brief levity seems to prevent either of us from doing anything for a few moments. We just stare openly at one another, my hands restless in my pockets, her eyes unmoving from mine. Then, after the time has begun dragging on, I quirk my lips, watching her with my eyebrow cocked playfully. “I think I’ve already gotten myself into trouble.”

It is lucky it's dark out here, or I may have actually seen the blush that I detect in Lorraine’s voice when she speaks. “Oh, you don’t know the half of it.” It’s funny how, even though I haven’t known her long at all, I can already recognize the small, almost undetectable changes in her demeanor, in the way that she carries herself, in the looks that she gives me.

And she thinks I’ve never heard of subtlety.


	2. So it Started There

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lorraine's no stranger to late-night mind games.

When I think about moving, my limbs feel unbearably heavy.

At the present moment, I have my knees drawn up to my chest, arms draped around them like an iron curtain, and it’s interesting how, when my mind toys with the idea of crawling back under the covers, I can hardly fathom pulling sheets up over the body that is so fucking _tired_ all of a sudden.

My strength—or rather, my will to be strong—has been sucked away. I can narrow the reason for this into two distinct possibilities:

1) The harsh, unforgiving adversities of life as an agent have finally taken their toll on me and, as a result, my body has shut down in an attempt to prevent further physical and mental deterioration.

2) I'm suffering from the after-effects of the horrifying nightmare I just had.

I’m almost numb to the soft kiss on my cheek that just barely manages to draw me back to reality. Delphine, from behind me on the bed, gently runs her fingers through my hair once. My shoulders are stiff and hunched over, my eyes boring into the dark wall a few feet away.

“Do you want to go back to sleep?”

It is less casual of a question than it should have to be, and more of a careful suggestion than anything else. It makes me turn and grasp the back of her head firmly, pulling her closer to me, breathing her in, memorizing the taste of her lips. Delphine’s comment, innocent despite the falter in her voice, lingers in my head, so I tug down on her hair a little, causing her to expose her neck. Then I lean in once more and allow my teeth to rasp across the skin. It’s when she shudders into me that my arms feel mobile again, and I wrap them around her as I decide to answer.

“If you want to,” I reply vaguely.

Her lips ghost over mine; barely touching, undecided. I open my eyes and see that she’s staring at me. She’s staring in that way that is almost painful, because the younger woman is trying so hard to understand. Those dark eyes, soft with worry and lightened by her desire to help, see far too much.

I’m not sure how I feel about that.

She surprises me by sneaking her hands under my shirt and settling them on my abdomen. Her eye contact hasn’t wavered and I’m not one to break such gazes, so I just sit here on top of the covers, trying to get used to the way her hands move with my steady breathing. I’ve never seen somebody look so intensely endearing.

“ _Je te veux_ ,” she breathes, her warm hands somehow giving me goosebumps. I bite my lip, watching her chestnut face in the muted light of the hotel room. She’s beautiful, truly. Like one of her photographs—a picture of perfection. It makes me want to caress the woman, even though I know I’ll ruin her, like a child ruins art by swiping dirty fingers across it. I understand the rules, what they are and how they work—you’re supposed to look, not touch—and yet, still, I cannot keep my hands to myself, even as my eyebrows crease together when I feel my finger run slowly down the side of Delphine’s arm.

Silently, I bend forward and place a kiss on her bare shoulder. The woman, after several moments of gazing at me reflectively, slides her hands gently out from underneath my shirt, and then she pulls at my elbow, retreats nimbly to the head of the bed, and slips her legs under the covers. I see the way she’s eyeing me with the come-hither stare she so enjoys throwing my way, her lips deliberate, her head tilted forward. How could I resist? Grudgingly, I climb in beside her, giving a slight eye roll before laying down with my hands folded austerely behind my head.

It doesn’t take long, however, for her to draw my attention away from the blackness of the low ceiling. She _is_ relentless, sometimes, in her sly way. Propped up on her elbows, Delphine is still gazing at me, and I finally choose to gaze back. I let my eyes roam idly to her bra-clad chest and her toned stomach before looking at her face again. She breathes out a faint laugh through her nose. “You _have_ to be tired,” she reminds me, giving a subdued smile.

Delphine is just guessing, though, really. She can’t know that my body aches all the time. Or that it’s more than just strained muscles and sore joints. It is a constant pang in my chest, gnawing at my stomach, my throat, behind my eyes. No amount of meditated ice bathing will soothe the exhaustion that I recognize as a permanent part of myself.

And now, of course, I can’t sleep. A second ago, I’d made the mistake of closing my eyes, and was greeted by the memory of tonight’s dream: I was at the market, walking through the produce section, taking a tomato in my fingers and sizing it up lazily. I couldn't have been more relaxed; hell, I think I'd even been _smiling_ to myself. Then there was Delphine, approaching from behind with a basket on her arm, and a small cake from the bakery tucked within. I’d looked at her and said, “Are you sure that’ll go with the Stoli?” and she’d just laughed weightlessly, flipping her hair over her shoulder, and said that everything goes with Stoli, and I’d shaken my head, hiding my amused lips as we proceeded to the deli and argued over what type of cheese we should purchase, Stilton or Brie de Meaux. The dream begins to get hazy, there, but I may have possibly conceded to Delphine's inclinations, although I'm sure I'd made her _earn_ it, because I wouldn't let her get her way that easily.

As I’d said—a nightmare, conjured by my own twisted imagination. I’m just thankful to have woken up.

“Yes, I’m tired,” I admit, and then I roll toward her while grabbing the cover, yanking it up over us as I hover above Delphine on the mattress. My hair falls forward when I look down. The woman has reached to place her fingers on my waist, watching with eyes that are glazed with desire and a longing that seems to reach more than one level.

“Then sleep,” she insists, trailing her fingers up my sides, teasing near the curves of my breasts. I can’t help but lower myself toward her, nudging a knee between her thighs, breathing out heavily.

“It can wait,” I say as my lips meet hers and I rock my body forward. Her gasp is all I need to hear. I’m momentarily energized again, full of life and ready to claim her, and even as my teeth connect hard enough to leave a mark on her neck, I know that I shouldn’t be touching her, that this fantasy cannot last. But I can always pretend.


	3. If You're That Way Inclined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's right after Lorraine and Delphine meet, and Delphine can't stop thinking about it.

As I jot down the address in my flowing scrawl, my hands do not shake, not even once. I’m certain she is watching, though—taking note of my fresh black nail polish, my confident grip on the pen, the smoothness with which I write.

She is observant. Her stare hones in on my mannerisms, and when I glance up to meet the analytical eyes, a persistent thought pops through the cracks in my concentration for the fourth time in the last few minutes: this woman is so _exotic_ up close. She’s severe, her sharp edges exposed, and more real than she ever was from behind the lens of my camera.

Pleasantly, I slide the note across the countertop, leaning in just a bit. She has this scent, I’ve realized, tantalizing and surprisingly sweet. Like something vanillic mixed with a vaguely smoky edge. It makes me want to lean _all_ the way in, to let her perfume fill my senses and cloud my mind even more. I could absolutely lose myself right now. The woman’s fingers wrap themselves around my note, her eyes never leaving me, her face expressing the slightest hint of a smile—alert, knowing—that causes my heart to pound faster. Damn, this isn’t good. I need to leave while I still have my wits.

I mirror her nonchalance, keeping the steadiness painted on my face, before I say my soft goodbye. Then I slip nimbly around her, heading toward the door, my extremities tingling as I feel the blonde’s gaze follow me out. My hand clutches the strap of my bag, which holds my camera inside, my lifeline.

I know that my photos, once developed, will not do her justice.

They will not capture her eyes, hard and piercing, or how they saw straight into me tonight. Photos are flat, you know, mere snapshots of the physical, and they won’t be able to convey the woman’s cold exterior—the graceful, confident movements that somehow set me on fire and toss me into an icy river all in one go.

Outside the café, I let out a breath that materializes in a foggy cloud. I’m buzzing with anticipation and adrenaline and pure excitement at what I just did. I had actually _spoken_ to her, and she’d spoken back—and, okay, disregarding how creepy that statement may make me sound—I could not feel more on top of the world right now.

(Unless, of course, this night had gone another way, the woman had followed me to the club, and she was currently in the process of not only taking off my clothes, but all the little parts of me that I’ve had to try so hard to hide this past year.)

Not good, Delphine. You do not need to expose yourself like this.

Obviously, I have it bad for her. And I’m probably way over my head, as usual. And there’s a great chance that I will never see the blonde or her fierce magnificence ever again, because a woman like her will have better places to be tomorrow evening than some club with a stranger she has only just met. Maybe that’s where I’ve gone wrong; I feel that I know her already, as if I’ve spent the last few days by her side and not in a telephone booth, a balcony, a shaded corner.

Now I most _definitely_ sound creepy. Maybe that’s what I am—a stalker.

Maybe she’s into that kind of thing.

I mean, hell, I even know her name, so I can stop pretending that any of the basics are still a mystery. Lorraine Broughton, show me the _rest_ of you…

My brisk walk in the cool night air has done nothing to clear my head, or the humming within it, nor has it quelled the notion that Lorraine’s alluring fragrance has lingered in my nose this entire time. As I cross the threshold into my apartment building, climb the stairs and unlock my door, I stop for a moment, licking my lips, leaning my forehead against the frame. If I wanted, I could still turn and make something more of this night. God knows I’m not going to be able to sleep for several hours, anyway, not with the restless energy in my arms and legs and skull. I could venture into another bar or club and spend the rest of my evening there, chatting people up and doing what Delphine Lasalle does best: _soak it all in_. Call it reconnaissance, or intel gathering, or anything along those lines.

But after meeting _her_ , what would the point even be?

I can’t answer this question, but I can’t _not_ answer this question, so I click my door shut, turn around in the hallway, and leave the apartment once more. 

An hour later and a few drinks in, I’m leaning up against the wall of a dark little bar a couple blocks from my place, sipping on a tropical breeze cocktail (because I _do_ love to trick myself into thinking I’m lounging on a beach somewhere) and tamely observing the people around me. It’s getting late, but the room is fairly crowded, and if it weren’t for my still-whirling mind and the quick flashes of sharp blue I see every time I blink, I’d be in the middle of the sea of bodies, pressing up against someone. Maybe, though, the whole ‘standing around’ thing really works for me, because after a while a girl with short brown hair emerges from the mass and strolls over. I take a long gulp of my drink, eyeing her over the glass. She smiles charismatically, stopping right in front of me.

“Why are you alone?” she asks, raising her voice over the din of the bar. The piercings in her ear glint when she tilts her head. She’d said it lightly, as a sort of come-on, maybe, but it had caused my mind to start rolling out all the reasons, only some of which I could plausibly give her—that I’m a carefree soul, that a poet doesn’t ever really settle down, that it’s easier this way—and some that I would get in trouble for telling _(“Oh, yes, I’m a French intelligence operative nowadays, didn’t you hear? Really exciting stuff. I don’t have room in my life for anything else.”)_.

“Because I’m dangerous,” I finally say, grinning. She grins back easily, stepping in and placing a manicured hand on my shoulder. I look at her thin arm, at the face that is perfect and kind and untouched by brutality. And then something catches my eye just past the girl’s shoulder, several yards away, tucked amidst the throng of people near the center of the room.

My eyes don’t move from the blonde head in the distance as I speak again. “Sorry,” I tell the girl in front of me distractedly, apologetically. “I can’t…”

It’s what Lorraine had said to me earlier tonight. _I can’t_. Stepping past the short-haired woman, whose eyes reveal the disappointment at my lack of attention, I begin walking toward the rest of the crowd. I feel like I’m in a trance. She’s wearing a dark dress, skin exposed in the back, bobbed-hair glimmering under the musty lighting, and—

Her head turns to the side and I catch a glimpse of her profile, a big nose and light green eyes. Casually, I slide past the crowd and enter the women’s restroom, not looking back.

I admit, that _had_ seemed a little too good to be true. I probably should have known better.

Pushing past the door and stepping in, the fluorescent light bearing down on my form, I slip the purse off my shoulder and set it on the counter. My fingers grip the edges of a porcelain sink and I gaze into the mirror, evaluating myself, looking at what Lorraine saw tonight and gauging how much of a first impression I _really_ made.

I smile.

Wearing the black dress was a good choice. I especially think so when I glance down at the sloping neckline, at how the arcs of my breasts are partially exposed, leaving little to the imagination. I hadn’t wanted the other woman to have to think hard about what my body looks like, so I’d made it easy.

I’m fairly certain that the man Lorraine had been talking to, the one I’d not-so-delicately interrupted at the bar, had appreciated the dress, too, but I really couldn’t care less.

Honestly, it had been quite easy to sidle up to the counter and finesse my way into their conversation. What had been slightly more difficult was coping when the monsieur had left the premises. His absence meant that I was alone with Lorraine, nothing but empty space shielding me from her vigilance. Once I’d been aware that she had eyes on me, it was a challenge, admittedly, to keep up the polished, sophisticated behavior that I pride myself on.

I reach over and rifle through my bag, pulling out a small brush. I run it through my hair a couple times before setting it down on the counter, staring into my own eyes but looking far beyond myself. My mind is still transfixed on the café, as it probably will be the rest of the evening. After all, our interaction, while short, had been intense. 

I want more of that intensity. I want to breathe her in all night, to feel her eyes on me and her hands following suit. I want to pay tribute to Lorraine in a way that my photos will never be able to do.

I want her to be as enamored by me as I am by her. I want her to miss me when we’re apart, to think that she sees me from across the room only to find out it’s a subpar stand-in double. I wonder if she’ll ever know me well enough to recognize the way that I smell.

I guess I’ll find out tomorrow.


	4. Keep it Down Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lorraine isn't a big fan of telephones, these days.

With my head secured between Delphine’s legs, the woman’s grip on my hair frighteningly strong, I begin to pick up the pace: my senses thrum with her sounds, her heat, and her fervent, desperate _need_ that just about drives me absolutely insane—

_Ring, ring, ring!_

She takes this moment to groan huskily, and I try to ignore the bedside telephone. In fact, I’m planning to—

_Ring!_

—throw the damn appliance out, because this is the second call my room has gotten in the last five minutes, and—

_Ring, ring, ring!_

From my position sprawled out below Delphine, I open my eyes to glare them in annoyance. The sound has caused the other woman’s eyelids to flutter open, too, and her clutch on me loosens. It’s considerably more difficult to focus on the rhythm of her shaky breaths when that _nuisance_ keeps droning on like an incessant headache.

_Ring, ring!_

Distraught, the woman untangles her fingers from my hair and grasps the bedsheets instead, gathering a fistful of the covers. I firmly clasp her smooth legs with my palms. “Don’t move,” I growl. Delphine, in her current, rather delicate state of being, immediately obeys. She shuts her eyes again and stills her limbs, although I can tell it’s hard for her from the rapid movement of her chest as she gasps for air.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, the ringing stops. I can still hear it in my ears as I exhale slowly and return all of my undivided attention to the younger woman. The interruption had cost us time, but now I can make up for it. Keeping my fingertips pressed hard against her thighs, I wrench my head up in a way that nearly pushes Delphine over the edge, and her cries, accompanied by a few expletives mumbled in French, almost drown out the next round of phone rings that have just started up again.

Almost.

_Ring, ring, ring!_

Another twist of my fingers causes Delphine’s back to rise off the bed and fall once more, body writhing at my touch, her ragged panting doing everything for me except getting rid of the ringing, and so as I hold onto her while she rides out the pleasure, I also utter a distinct “Fuck!” directed at the telephone. It seems to be growing louder, or maybe I’m just getting impatient, but in any case, there’s a part of me that is now concerned, because it’s _two a.m._ and who would be calling, especially so consistently? I’ve already decided it’s best not to answer—but now I am wondering if Delphine and I should get out of here.

I hear her pause in breathing to swallow thickly, wiping the sweat from her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Do you think you should…” she begins, referring to answering the phone.

“No,” I say immediately.

“Do you think _I_ should—”

“No.” I crawl over her body and lean down to kiss her lips. She returns the motion eagerly, her hand wrapping around my neck. The ringing has stopped once more, and the room seems eerily quiet as a result. I lay down on the pillow next to us and pull her along with me, my hands sliding down to her waist as she pecks me with her lips. I let myself relax a little as she pushes her tongue into my mouth, straddling my hips on the bed. Her kisses begin traveling down my neck, stopping at my pulse point, my collarbone, and then between my breasts; all the while, her hands are ravishing me, gliding across my ribcage and my stomach. She’s quite good at leaving no area untouched, at making sure I can’t focus on just one thing at a time, because she’s never just doing one thing. She is skilled and attentive. Her eyes meet mine for a moment. I reach down, rake my nails against her skull in approval.

And then the bloody phone starts up again.

Its loud clatter reverberates off the walls, surrounding us, filling our ears deafeningly. Delphine immediately glances up once more, at first at the phone and then at me. Before she can say anything I hook a leg up over her to keep her from moving. She raises her eyebrows at me curiously. “Delphine…” I intone warningly. She stares at me as the ringing continues, her hands motionless against my torso, and we have a contest, of sorts. Who will break first? Without taking my eyes away from hers, I continue speaking impassively. “I’d sooner unplug the thing than answer it.”

“What if it’s something important?” Her voice, both sultry and inquisitive, makes me set my jaw in defiance.

“And what if it’s a Russian spy trying to determine if I’m here?”

“What if there’s a fire downstairs? And they’re trying to warn us?” Delphine’s fingers trace teasingly along my hipbones.

This is a game to her. As the phone rings on and on, she gazes at me, daring me to answer. Does she not understand that getting killed is as easy as picking up a phone? I _know_ she’s aware of this, but her smirk is enough to make me lose my train of thought, and so I sigh and outstretch my arm.

I don’t say anything into the receiver when I put the phone up to my ear.

At first, there’s silence. Then, in a deep, slightly distorted tone: “ _Ist das Eagle One? Sie werden beobachtet. Dies ist eine Warnung._ ”

I hang up the phone with a sharp click, staring straight ahead. Delphine is still observing me, I know, her hand running up my leg assuredly, but I don’t look at her. Instead, I grab the pack of cigarettes sitting on the table and pull one out, leaning back against the headboard.

The other woman shifts around so that she can grab a lighter, because I hadn't gotten that far. She brushes her fingers around my wrist, keeping it still as she ignites the end of the cigarette for me. I take a puff. It’s easy to keep my face blank because I’m not sure what I should be thinking, yet. 

Delphine seems unfazed by my lack of emotion. Her hand curls over the inside of my knee as she frowns. “What was that?”

I shake my head. “Nothing. Wrong number.” I feel her fingers curl more, nails grazing my skin softly.

“It sounded...sinister.”

I take several long drags of my cigarette, twirling it listlessly. After a while, I run the heel of my hand over my forehead and speak without making eye contact. “I think you need to go.”

Out of my peripherals, I can tell that the look on her face distorts briefly. Then it quickly slackens back into a still indifference. “What language was spoken?” she questions unwaveringly.

My lips purse. “German.”

“And what did they say?”

“Delphine,” I say, and it makes her stop, stare at me. I stare back icily. “I’ve had a long day.”

“I know, that’s why I’m here.”

I don’t understand why I’ve started letting this woman get under my skin. She’s making my stomach do flips and my chest tighten and I do not believe I am alright with that. 

“Apparently I’m being watched,” I tell her distantly. “And warned.”

She seems worried, her brows inching downward. Perhaps she’s realizing that she shouldn’t have pushed me to answer the call. Perhaps I’m realizing I shouldn’t have let her. “Anything else?” she asks.

“Something about an ‘Eagle One’.” I inhale more smoke absently.

Delphine stares at me silently for several drawn out moments, her eyes moving up and down my face searchingly. Then, suddenly, her mouth spreads out into a smile. She starts chuckling faintly, and when I shoot a razor-edged glance her way, she laughs more audibly. The woman drops her head to my shoulder, which smothers her sounds, but I can feel the vibrations still. I’m never quite certain how to react when she laughs at what I say.

“Lorraine,” she tells me slowly, “that was a prank call.” I don’t answer her. She nuzzles her nose into my neck, breathes out warmly, her mouth moving against my skin as she continues speaking. “‘Eagle One’? ‘This is a warning’?” She laughs again; her whole body shakes with it. “That’s so cliché it sounds like it could be from a movie. In fact, it probably is.”

After a few seconds, during which I wordlessly tolerate her playfulness, I reach over Delphine and press the end of my cigarette against the ashtray on the table, leaving it there. Then, when I bring my scrutiny back to her, I grab the woman by the shoulders and expertly flip her over so that I am on top.

“Forget this happened,” I order, my hands on either side of her head, fists sinking into the pillow.

She looks up at me with her mischievous eyes, fingers already making their way down below my navel. “Make me,” she says challengingly.

So I do. Several times, actually.

When the phone rings again, we’re on the ground beside the bed, having wrestled ourselves off the mattress a few minutes ago. Delphine is momentarily above me and she starts to extend her arm to answer it, but I elbow her out of the way easily, because she knows I don’t want her to answer the phone in my room, ever. I bring it to my ear and instantly hear giggling on the other end of the line. Delphine hears it, too, judging from her crooked smile. She’s resting her neck idly on the side of the bed as I get up to yank the cords out of the socket. When I shoot her another look, she shrugs innocently. “Wrong number?” she asks, stretching out her arms behind her.

I can’t decide if I want to walk away or crouch down and wipe that smug look off of her face. I step over to the window, cross my arms, and look out at the vacant street below. “Wrong number,” I agree slowly. It’s late, and I know I should get some sleep. But for now, without the ringing, it’s rather nice to be able to hear my own thoughts again, and to contemplate how, exactly, I’m going to get Delphine to stop snickering at me. I have a few ideas.


	5. That's All I Wanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After spending their first night together, Delphine prepares for the worst.

_Today is a new day._

And, with that in mind, I am very certain Lorraine will be gone by the time I’ve finished cleaning up. Today is a new day, the magic of last night is behind us, and we both have places to be.

For now, though, I rub my eyes, gaze into the little bathroom mirror, and stretch my arms out above my head, languidly gathering my hair up in my hands and then letting the locks cascade through my fingers. I’m practically glowing from last night and I bite my lip at the memory. I want to return more than ever to Lorraine, whom I’d left under the covers in the other room. Instead, I step over to the tub and bend so that I can pivot the faucet and think about how much better the hot steam would be with her in it.

A few minutes ago I’d slipped nimbly out of the bed. The lack of blankets—and of Lorraine’s close presence—had made my nude body shiver. My stirrings had probably woken the other woman, but her appearance never showed it, because her closed eyelids and her moving chest had both been unwaveringly steady. As I’d idled above her for a moment, I couldn’t help but wonder briefly if she is a morning person. If the circumstances were different, I would wait for her to open her eyes and I’d kiss the tip of her nose and maybe she’d reveal a trace of a smile.

It is a stupid notion, which is why I’ve stowed myself away in the other room: to give Lorraine time to leave without it being awkward for either of us, even though I would wholeheartedly like to keep her in my line of sight until the very last moment, until she has to at least _try_ to explain why we’ll never see each other again. Of course, the very nature of what we do makes that explanation obvious, but I’d accept a lie on Lorraine’s part, if only to keep this fantasy alive in my mind.

I hope she at least leaves a note.

I’m bracing myself for an empty room—and the grim chill of the city that will inevitably follow—when I lumber past the foggy glass above the sink and wrap a tight towel around my body. With some tentativeness, I crack open the door, peek my head out. The bed is empty, sheets ruffled and unkempt, and I’m surprised at how quickly my heart sinks. Emerging into the space, I chew the inside of my cheek to counter the prickly stinging sensation in my eyes.

There’s a soft yet distinct _click_ from the corner.

I spin around. Lorraine, sitting regally in an armchair, one leg crossed over the other, is looking at me through my camera and lifting an index finger off the button. _Merde_ , I hadn’t been ready for that at all. Hastily, I straighten up in front of her, brushing my damp bangs out of my face and feeling slightly flushed in my just-showered, partially-naked state. When Lorraine lowers the camera, I see past the stoic expression into eyes that carry the slightest hint of amusement. She doesn’t say good morning—not that I’d expected it; in fact, I think it would have scared me if she did—but she does say something else.

“I don’t understand how you do this all day.”

Her gaze drops to the camera for a second, and when she raises her eyes again, I watch as Lorraine takes time to shamelessly look me up and down, taking in my figure with a stare that is a little too keen to be innocent. It makes my stomach drop a notch and my legs go weak. 

I’m not sure how I peel my feet off the ground and force myself to take a couple steps further into the room, padding over to a table and picking gingerly at my crumpled clothes from last night. It takes me a second to regain my self-controlled poise, but when I do, I look back at the woman demurely over my shoulder. “Well, I usually find myself inspired,” I tell her, laying my striped shirt out flat on the wooden surface. “And I don’t do it _all_ day. Although I can see how photography could be boring for you. Too much standing around and not enough ass-kicking.” I turn my head again and throw a wink her way. Then I fiddle with the top of my towel, letting it slide off my body sensually and fall to the floor.

A few seconds go by before I hear another click of the camera, cementing my bare image on film. I smirk, taking my sweet time when I put my undergarments on.

“It’s certainly not boring.” Her voice is closer than I expect, less than a foot behind me, and I pause.

“Oh?” I ask, stalling.

Lorraine’s hands fall to my shoulders, her voice in my ear. “I just don’t think taking photos is one of my…” Her low husk causes bumps to rise on my skin that she can probably feel as she skims her fingertips down my back. “...strong suits.”

A warm sigh caresses my neck when my body visibly twitches under the woman’s touch. And then, she’s gone, halfway across the room again. The sudden emptiness is startling to me, and I’m tempted to pout at her abruptness, but then I remember that I’m not that kind of girl, and that she doesn’t want that kind of girl.

With a shallow breath, I turn around coolly. Lorraine is getting dressed in fluid motions, putting on a grey jacket over her clothes, slipping into her boots. It isn’t fair that her hair is nearly perfect even after our long night. I realize that I’m staring fixedly, and that she’s probably acutely conscious of it, so I turn again and reach out for my clothes. But then her inquiring tone cuts through the silence once more. “You’re not wearing those again, are you?”

I cough once into a loose fist. “I brought nothing else, so yes, I am.”

“You’ll wear something of mine.”

It’s a statement that I don’t dare argue with, not that I would want to. Honestly, she could probably tell me anything right now and I’d go along with it. Lorraine is next to me again, unzipping her suitcase on the table, rustling inside for a moment before retrieving a pair of dark jeans and a grey t-shirt. I regard the outfit curiously. My black leather jacket will go wonderfully with the getup, a detail which I find interesting as I toss her a sidelong smile.

Her slim fingers brush against mine longer than needed when she passes the clothes to me, her observant stare flitting over my face and meeting my wary eyes. “Just make sure you bring them back.”

Of all the things she’s said to me this morning, this last comment is what makes my stomach flutter the most. It is what I mull over as, several minutes later, I trot down the stairs, jeans rolled up at the bottom because Lorraine is taller than me, and open the door to the outside world. I’ve probably got the silliest grin on my face and, _hell_ , I really need to work on hiding my feelings, don’t I? Especially feelings like these?

Still, I cannot deny that the cold breeze somehow feels downright balmy against my still-dripping hair, the biting air refreshing on my cheeks. Wrapping my fingers around my camera and toying with the bottom of Lorraine’s shirt, I breathe deeply, tread onto the pale city sidewalk, and press forward.


	6. Don't Turn Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lorraine's night out with Delphine gets interrupted.
> 
> AKA: what happened before Delphine hit that man in the nose.

From beside me, Delphine has begun rapping her fingernails against the wooden checkout counter. I have half a mind to grab her wrist, keep it still. I'm not anxious, but I _am_ growing impatient, and the woman’s unconscious movements are doing nothing to ease my awareness of the fact that we are very much out in the open. 

A bookstore is no place for us right now, as I’m sure she has realized—it's too lit-up, not enough people. I am about to flash my eyes around again to scan for the usual things, but then the clerk passes the souvenir back across the counter and thanks me for my purchase. Keeping my face inscrutable, I turn rather brusquely toward the exit, leaving Delphine to shadow along behind me. I don’t need to see her to know that her eyebrows are rising and falling expressively, but it isn’t until we are back out on the misty street and have gone several paces down the block that I feel her hand brush fleetingly against the back of mine.

“It really is a thoughtful gift,” she ventures, the woman’s trusting smile threatening to push past my outward veneer.

Slipping the paperweight into Delphine’s palm, I watch offhandedly as she looks at it with affection before stowing it away in her bag. “It’s late,” I comment, steering our conversation elsewhere. We stop on the corner of the sidewalk, German street signs rising above us in the darkness.

“It’s perfect,” she answers convincingly. I know exactly what she means, too: the night life belongs to us, we’ve already figured out. We’re not about to waste it. 

I _sense_ the shadowy figure to the side of us before I see him out of the corner of my eye. The hairs stand up on the back of my neck. The man is slouching out from an alleyway, broad shoulders hunched forward as he saunters in our direction. Furtively, Delphine tweaks my arm, shooting me a glance and emitting what could only be interpreted as a quiet growl. “There he is again,” she says through her teeth.

Reaching over, I wrap a hand around her bag strap discreetly, pulling her along with me as I continue walking before she can make a show of ogling the man. “Ignore him,” I tell the younger woman softly. My heartbeat has already returned to normal, my pulse no longer loud in my ears. The man's body, I've noticed, keeps lurching forward with every few steps that he takes, feet catching on the dibbets in the sidewalk. 

Still, Delphine doesn’t seem convinced that he is harmless—not judging by the way her nostrils flare as she begrudgingly lets herself be led by me. Just around the corner, there is a small bar, and Delphine, who appears to be familiar with all such establishments in this city, jerks her head at the door. I don’t protest. We duck into the building before the man can follow us. The instantaneous wall of smoke and loud pop music is nearly overwhelming, but I breathe in the atmosphere gladly. Then I tighten my grip on Delphine’s bag and guide her through the buzzing throng of people. She hasn’t objected to my hold on her, yet, and I’d kind of like to see what else she won’t object to.

“Drinks?” I question, once we’re far enough inside that I can turn around to face her. I let go of the strap to run a hand along the side of her torso. The action feels strange—disembodied, like I am an outside party watching Lorraine Broughton’s fingers graze over the fabric of a French woman’s shirt—but I don’t dwell on this.

Her response is a playful eyeroll. She begins to pull away so she can step over to the bartender, but I keep her in place by bunching her shirt up within my fingers securely. My movement makes her eyes glint and mouth turn up at the corners, so I lean into her and breathe, “I didn’t tell you what I want.”

“I know what you want,” she responds dismissively, but I notice her sharp intake of breath, the slight parting of her lips after she wets them. Her eyes lock onto mine, unnerving, and she is about to raise her voice above the din of our surroundings to say something to me, but then…

“ _Enchante, mademoiselle_.” 

A woman with long, crimson hair has just emerged from behind Delphine, murmuring close to her ear. Her voice, airy and tinted with familiarity, also carries a certain nuance, a suggestive quality. Her eyes are shimmering. Delphine turns quickly, face lighting up as soon as she recognizes the woman, her smile suddenly wide.

“Soleil!” she exclaims in surprise, displaying more enthusiasm than I have yet seen of her. I let my hand fall from Delphine’s waist as she turns to embrace the woman in an unbridled hug. Watching with intrigue, I notice how the woman’s freshly-curled locks momentarily curtain Delphine’s features from view. They separate enough to kiss one another on the cheeks, and then the two women begin speaking rapidly in French, leaning into one another giddily.

The entire scene is fascinating, really, especially when this Soleil skims a pale, freckled hand over Delphine’s forearm and hangs on to her.

Idly, Delphine runs her fingers through her own hair, tilting her head as she speaks to the other woman. “ _Et je suis tout simplement profiter de la nuit avec_ …” she begins, and I believe she is saying something about ‘enjoying the night’, and then she swivels on the spot, her dark eyes landing on me. I pretend not to notice. Instead, I focus on Soleil, appraising the beauty that she practically emanates, accentuated by the deep mascara, rosy blush, and natural cheekbones. “Lorraine,” Delphine says distantly, “meet Soleil…”

Without taking my eyes off the new woman, I extend my hand for her to shake. She takes it. Her delicate fingers make for a surprisingly firm grip, but I notice that her wrist is angled downward. Somehow, it has the effect of wresting the control over to me. I find this interesting, and I grace her with a ghost of a smile as she draws a breath to speak.

“Pleasure,” she intones with an accent thicker than Delphine’s. A few beats go by before the darker woman looks between the both of us.

“Soleil is my friend who owns the club,” she explains to me. Before I can respond, she continues quickly, “You know, the one—”

“I came to meet you in the other night?” I keep my voice light, but I let the words linger in the air, lacing them with reminiscence. “Yes, I seem to recall.” The suggestion in my tone causes Soleil to look on with intrigue, and when I allow myself to make eye contact with Delphine again, I can see that her cheeks have pinkened even in the dim lighting.

When Soleil addresses me, her gaze is direct, perceptive. “You enjoyed your visit, no?”

“Undoubtedly,” I reply, my eyes landing briefly on a green brooch around her neck before returning to her soft face. “You must be proud of the place.”

“The club...it keeps me busy,” she breezes, shrugging, as if owning one is no big deal; and perhaps it isn’t. Soleil glances at Delphine, nodding her head once before speaking to me. “ _She_ is, what you would say, a regular.”

Delphine chuckles smoothly. “Can you blame me? I am treated like royalty.” Her eyes flick over to mine. “Free drinks whenever I come by.”

I raise my eyebrows in a show of comprehension. “Ah, so _that’s_ why you invited me.”

Her mouth opens in an instant, tenacious “No!”, and she pushes me lightly on the arm, an action which surprises me a little but which I also feel a strong urge to return. But I don’t. I simply let Delphine speak, her warm tones lofting above the noise of the people around us. “I just really love the ambiance…”

Soleil is covering another sly smile, glancing back and forth at Delphine and me. Then, woefully, she sighs, and we both look at her. “Sadly,” she laments, “I must bid _adieu_. I have already been here for an hour.” Her eyes find Delphine’s. “But, _s’il vous plait_ , allow me to buy you drinks? A gift from _moi?_ ”

Shaking her head vehemently, Delphine lays a hand on Soleil’s shoulder. “Oh, _non!_ Please, Soleil.”

“I insist. If only to honor the meeting of your,” she makes a sweeping gesture in my direction, “lovely _acquain-tance_.” The word trips off her tongue almost awkwardly, as if pronouncing it had proved more difficult than expected. Still, she continues on elegantly, her confident posture never wavering. “Tell me, Lorraine, what do you like?”

Delphine looks about ready to answer for me, having stepped closer to where I am, her elbow skimming my arm. I clear my throat, faintly entertained by this. “I suppose I wouldn’t mind a surprise.”

The redhead nods happily, then disappears, leaving Delphine and me alone—relatively speaking, considering the crowd around us. A few long moments tick by in which neither of us speaks at all. I suppose our night alone together hasn’t exactly gone as planned, and I can’t say that Delphine is acting anything at all like I’ve known her to act. It seems to have thrown off our balance a bit, offsetting our usual give-and-take interactions. Finally, after I’m sure she cannot stand it anymore, the other woman makes a point of looking at me, pivoting her entire body. “So, what do you think of her?”

I pause before answering, rolling the possible responses around in my mind. I haven't yet mirrored Delphine's focused, intent body language, and I make sure to keep my eyes zeroed-in on a spot in the distance so that she cannot see my hesitation. Then, at length, I say, “It’s nice to be able to meet your friends.”

There’s a certain amount of sarcasm in the way that I say it. But after the words fall out of my mouth, the irony of our situation also catches up to me; the sheer _domesticity_ is too much. It gives me the sudden, overwhelming desire to run, the muscles in my calves tightening and my breathing becoming shallow in preparation.

“She and I have known each other for a while,” Delphine admits, too casually, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. I tune into her gestures, into the elbow that is propped rigidly upon an arm crossed over her chest. This time, I wait for her to bring her eyes up to me again before I speak again, and it takes a few seconds, but my silence finally piques her curiosity, bringing her gaze with it.

“You never expected me to actually _meet_ your ‘friend who owns a club,’ did you?”

She opens her mouth to reply, eyes shining, but then closes it before words come out. At first, I think it's because she doesn’t know what to say, but her eyes have roamed beyond me, landing somewhere past my shoulder. Her finger tightens around the piece of hair she’d been toying with and her body is rigid.

Without looking back, I purse my lips knowingly. “He’s here, isn’t he?” My mind flashes to the streets outside, and to the stumbling, unfocused figure who’d been trailing us. Delphine looks about ready to jump him (something I may or may not be interested in witnessing) but I wonder if her sudden frustration with this man is partially a result of the conversation we’ve been having. 

A curt nod is the only response I get from Delphine before her friend returns to us. "Is...everything all right, _chéries_?" Soleil hands a glass with bright pink liquid in it to each of us. When Delphine takes hers, she hardly bothers to look at it, still leering at the man behind my shoulder. I, however, have already moved on. I grasp the tall cup and look into its depths dispassionately, debating on whether I should snap my fingers in front of Delphine’s face.

__

Soleil follows Delphine’s stare with her own, her line of sight moving beyond me. I watch as the woman’s face transforms in understanding. “Drink,” Soleil advises, voice lowering a notch, clicking her thumb and forefinger together suddenly under Delphine’s nose. After the woman does this, she and I exchange a look. I’ve decided to like her. “Forget about the _chiens_.”

__

Without waiting for Delphine to respond, the redhead squeezes her lightly on the shoulder. Then she nods at me before disappearing into the crowd. Delphine seems to force herself back to reality, waving at Soleil just before she’s gone. When she eventually takes a sip of her drink, she makes a face. “Oh,” Delphine utters.

__

“Any good?” I ask detachedly.

__

“Delicious,” she replies immediately. “And you will hate it.” She taps her fingers against her glass. The woman seems to have made a conscious decision to keep her eyes trained on me, but I know that she wants to look past my shoulder again. I can see the way that she is trying to smoothly make up for her momentary loss of calmness. “Drink quickly,” she finally tells me, twirling the straw around in her cup.

__

I watch her, dubious. “You’re asking me not to enjoy my…” I lightly sniff the rim of the glass. It is fruity, sickeningly sugary and sweet. “...alcoholic Pepto?”

__

She sighs. “I don’t like that man, Lorraine.” Her voice is furtive again, possessive. It makes me want to corner her or push her against the wall and breathe into her skin. I consider arguing with her, but I know that, despite everything, I’d be lying to say I haven’t also been a little on edge this evening.

__

Tilting my head back, I down half of my drink. Then I hand it to her, not caring what happens to the rest of it. Perhaps a surprise wasn’t what I needed, after all. “Let’s go.”

__

As Delphine’s fingers intertwine with mine and she leads me out, I wonder, briefly, about Soleil, and if Delphine would be just as annoyingly protective over _her_. The woman's grip is tight, making my hand go numb, and I can’t remember the last time I let someone pull me around like this. I can’t remember if I should let myself care.

__


	7. Made of This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Delphine looks for pleasure in the details, or sometimes just for the small, secret wonders.

Three forty-five a.m. is a very strange time to be awake.

It is that groggy grey area between night and dawn when nobody should be up. And those who _are_ up are in some sort of daze, mind blank and eyesight hazy. Three forty-five a.m. is not a time to think, or to move, or to ponder life’s mysteries; it is a time to simply _be._

I can’t say why I have woken up, or why I haven’t been able to drift back asleep, but I don’t worry about it. Instead, I lay on my side, head resting on the plush pillow, keeping my half-opened eyes trained on the outline of Lorraine’s lithe form. For me, it has always been easy to simply _be_ , but I’m not sure it is so easy for this woman. And to see her now, body rising up and down rhythmically, is a privilege. She has her arms tucked over one another loosely, one of her palms open and facing upward on top of the sheets. Sound asleep. I admire the rare sight, a beautiful picture, and I am tempted to say that she looks nearly innocent at this moment.

But maybe _innocent_ isn’t the right word. Sure, Lorraine’s eyebrows are relaxed, her expression clear of the vigilant lines and shadows of secrecy that normally characterize her. And without that cool mask that she wears so well during most hours of the day, it is amazing how much younger the woman looks. She’s _free,_ in the purest sense of the word—which might be a better description of the Lorraine that I am silently observing—temporarily released from the ties she has with the world, with where and who she needs to be.

I need to stop falling asleep before Lorraine.

I don’t mean to—I’d like to stay up all night with her. But after we make love, and lay sprawled together on top of the bed sheets, my eyelids always grow so _heavy_. It’s such a contrast to her own eyes, somehow still keen and alert even after what I am sure was a long day for her, and even after our frolicking late-night endeavors. She sometimes drags the rounded tips of her fingernails across my skin and suddenly, everything becomes fuzzy, and my ears become attuned to her quiet, steady breathing, and I can even hear her heartbeat as I lay my head over her chest, and before I know it, I’m slipping into a shamefully comfortable sleep.

I think I must have woken abruptly from a dream, or from the sound of a car passing on the street outside—which makes no sense, because who would be out and about at this hour? How can the world already be moving when _mine_ seems to have come to a standstill? Lorraine is breathtaking, a monument that is larger than life and seeming almost forbidden, as if I shouldn’t be watching: I am a girl who has stepped a little too close, intruding, too curious for her own good. Still, I stay up and gaze at her for what feels like a long time, the early-morning minutes blurring into each other in a messy fog.

Eventually, Lorraine stirs. I’m afraid she will catch me staring at her through the darkness, so I shift closer to her as if I am moving in my sleep, the tip of my nose lightly bumping her chin. In return, she moves her hand to the back of my neck, reining me in, inviting me to bury my head below hers and tangle our legs together. She holds me softly, touches me in a way I had never expected from her, lazy caresses soothing and _oh so warm._ I can already feel myself being lulled away, my thoughts retreating to the edge of my mind, the vague, indistinct idea of _love_ filling me with a kind of exhausted joy that—

_Non!_

I cannot think like that, I should not think at all. My breath catches in my chest as I focus on the smoothness of our intertwined legs, halting all thoughts. This is not the time to ponder. Four a.m. is the time to _be,_ and I know this. I am good at just being, and so that is what I do, placing a hand on Lorraine’s bare chest again just to feel the constant, unwavering thrum below the surface. The woman’s fingers are loosely tangled in my hair, scraping over my skull tenderly. It makes me shiver, and then I lose my will to stay awake, and the last echoes of my early morning thoughts begin to float away.

When Lorraine sleeps, she looks free. I’d like to ask her, sometime, what _I_ look like, and if she has noticed just how much I have fallen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys don't mind a short chapter this time. Annndd possibly for the next one, too. I kind of have these planned out. Thanks for reading!


	8. Völlig Losgelöst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's always been something about Delphine that Lorraine can't seem to ignore.

“What do you know about this woman who's been following me?”

I’d asked Percival the question while I had him down, beneath me on the edge of the bed and willingly in my control, because our position had ignited something in me: a lust, urgent and burning.

But not for him.

It was a lust for someone better. 

Better than Percival, with his too-slick smile and his fucking _charm._ Being alone with him in the hotel room—my head still damp and my skin numb from a chilling bath, an off-the-shoulder tee clinging to my frame—was not _enough_ and far too much at the same time. My very slight appreciation for his ability to sneak in was vastly overpowered by my desire for him to be gone, out of my sight. He didn’t belong here. I knew because of the bad taste in my mouth that had accompanied his sudden arrival in my quarters.

James Gascoigne was better. Perfect. Superior in every way to _David Percival,_ who’d stared up at me with his elbows digging into the mattress and the dimmest gleam of hunger in his eyes. He’d _liked_ that I had him pinned, and his head was tilted as if goading me into making some kind of move—any kind, violent, sexual, it hadn’t mattered—but we both knew that it would never happen. Percival is not good enough, doesn’t have what I need. I can be friendly with him, work with him, get the job done with his help if that’s what my mission demands, but there is something so transparently double-dealing about this man that I will never be able to get past.

Because, for God’s sake, at least _try_ to look like you’re not waiting to stab me in the back.

“I'd say that you’re an attractive woman, and that you should do the math.”

His eyes, torn between earnestness and arrogance, bored into me unapologetically. But I had already done the math, and had come to the conclusion that this other woman must have a secret. Perhaps like the one I’m certain Percival carries around with him, pressing yet well-concealed, or maybe the secret was something else entirely. In any case, I knew there was more to her than what I’d gathered from my stolen faraway glances, some hidden motive of which even she may not yet be aware.

The woman’s quiet surveillances, first of all, were either amateurish or intentionally noticeable. I clearly recall making eye contact with her from across the plaza after I’d arrived in Berlin. In the two and half seconds that followed, she hadn’t moved an inch, not even to feign a phone call in that booth, or to fumble with her change, or to _attempt_ to appear casual. She’d just stared back, a dark-haired, tan-skinned statue, undeniably palpable against the grey-toned slosh of the city.

There hadn’t been time to do much more than comprehend that I was being watched. But it was enough to kickstart my intrigue and to make myself speculate why, exactly, her gaze had felt like a hot blade, cutting through the space between us with a branding, unwavering focus.

Then I moved. I got into the car, pushing my speculation onto the backburner and subsequently forcing that KGB agent out the door while we were tearing down the road, seizing the safety belt upon pure instinct, bracing myself for what could have easily been a devastating crash for all parties involved (but which had gotten the job done effectively, I have to say), taking a breath, and shooting at the unfashionably-tardy Agent Percival.

The woman in the telephone booth had not, exactly, been my top priority at the time.

And then, later, after I'd been given a room, and had gotten as comfortable as an MI6 operative ever gets (setting an unpacked suitcase atop a dresser, soaking my bloodied clothes in sink water): _a goddamn motorcycle._

I would have said it out loud, had I not been concerned with appearing indifferent when I'd stepped outside. Luckily, my sunglasses, aside from blocking the glare of the cloudy weather, had also concealed any show of emotion that may have momentarily slipped across my countenance. 

But, bloody hell, what’s more conspicuous than a motorcycle? The vehicle’s entire essence screams _pay attention._ For a clearly stylish, seemingly sophisticated, apparently independent woman, she really wasn’t doing a fit job of blending in.

Rain pounding against my dark umbrella, I’d moved commendably on toward Gascoigne’s flat, my boots silent against the wet pavement. This woman, whoever she happened to be, was still not an immediate issue. It had been necessary for me to have a clear mind while searching the apartment, so I'd momentarily forgotten about her motorcycle. And that _camera_. Truthfully, it’d been easy, because after it was all said and done—after cranking up the stereo, whipping a cable around a West Berlin policeman’s throat, leaping off a balcony, and ignoring the newly-formed knuckle scrapes that were warm and stinging inside my coat pockets—I’d had bigger, more pressing concerns to deal with, like _did you know him_ and _remember, trust no one_ and, my personal favorite, _I think I fucking love you._

I’d organized every piece of information logically in my head, fitting them in place and rearranging when needed. Reading between the lines wherever I could. Long ago, I had taught myself the importance of doing this—picking apart what people have said to me, a process just as important as analyzing body language. It is vital, as I’ve learned, to be aware of what others say or don’t say, conveyed with the turn of a shoulder, a too-fast blink, or misplaced hand gesture. What a person does with her body and what she does with someone else’s body, well. It can mean the difference between remaining unreadable or handing out your most well-guarded secrets.

I’m still trying to understand Delphine Lasalle.

Even now, with her body pinned down, the weight of my own resting over her, I cannot quite figure her out, not even after putting a gun to her head an hour ago. Why is this? It’s frustrating, but she’s letting me have my way, her forehead creasing as I run my tongue up the nape of her neck, her hips lifting into mine when I stop, stare down at her, squeeze my fingers around her wrists more assertively.

“What do you know about me?” I ask. I can hear the demand in my own voice, the vague hint of desperation, a need to understand why this situation is any different than it was with Percival, or, dare I let myself think it, with James.

The woman’s tone rings out clear. “Everything,” she says, and it is quite possibly the most sincere word she has uttered to me all evening. Staring up with widened eyes that do not waver, somehow matching mine in intensity, she waits for me to make a move.

And, with her, I do.


	9. Someone Who Cares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Delphine wakes up.

I feel like hell. My muscles have frozen over, stiff and unmoving and threatening to crack. My throat feels as though white-hot flames have licked it raw, on the inside and out. It is hard to swallow. I don’t know why that is.

I feel like you do after a late night on the town, groggy and hurting, with absolutely no idea where you are or how the fuck you got there. I feel like saying that word, _fuck,_ over and over, because this _fucking_ headache won’t let me be creative with my language right now and at least, through the pounding and the freezing and the burning, _fuck_ feels good on my tongue. It is crisp, and curling, and it takes the edge off. It soothes me. It reminds me of the woman that I’m in love with. I like to hear the crude words leave her mouth, especially when they are said on impulse—sometimes even without prior calculation, moments that I savor. _Fuck._

“Now, that’s not very poetic of you, at all.”

Her voice slices through the dark and it’s jarring. I don’t know where it came from, or even if it was real. It had hurt, that much is certain, but I’d gladly trade my desperately aching forehead for a chance to hear it again. The biggest problem, however, is that I am almost positive I hadn’t said anything out loud, which means that Lorraine’s sly comment, no matter how welcome it was, may have been completely in my own head.

Wonderful.

Should I feel more panicked than I am? I’m feeling a lot of things, primarily pain—not purely of the physical variety—but fear isn’t among them. I do know that I should move. Moving is how you stay alive; I’ve learned this over time, realized that staying in one place is a good way to make yourself an easy target. But right now, somehow, in the midst of the darkness of my closed eyelids and the thrumming pain inside of me, surviving seems the least of my priorities. How can a person stay alive when she isn’t sure if it’s worth it? Where can motivation be found if she doesn’t even know where to start looking? I am a bug, small and helpless, lying on its back with crippled limbs and not even a faint twitch left in the body that once fought so hard to stay alive. I don’t remember why I used to fight, or what has caused me to give up, but maybe, if someone jabbed me in the stomach, it would all come rushing back to me.

“Delphine.”

Every one my muscles tenses up. It’s like I'm being barreled over, by something large and metaphorically cliché like a train, its underbelly ripping across my skin and screeching permanent indentations into my body. The images that enter my mind as soon as she says my name must be fake. They are dark and harsh and far too violent. They don’t fit into my into my ideas of what the spy life should have been.

_“Sorry, love...this is the game.”_

I couldn’t breathe. Something thin and cruel had wrapped around my neck, unrelenting, stealing my breath, choking it out of me. And then, after, I was overwhelmed by the hard, desperate clutch of fingers on my shoulders, digging into flesh. Shaking me once, twice. Begging me to move. Coldness stretched taut against my spine, which hit the ground and stayed there, and the sad part was that I’d decided to prefer this over the rattling, hysteric exasperation that had made my stomach churn and an angry heat rise to my face. It had made me pick up the phone and call the one who was to blame for all this— _"I can play this game better than you think"_ —and slam it down just as quickly.

My reckless anger had fizzled out as the sight of my own bed before me grew fuzzier by the second. Gun untouched under the pillow, mattress far too expansive and empty. _She_ wasn’t there. She was gone. So what was the point?

_Move._

When my eyelids fly open, a gasp leaves my mouth. I am surrounded by _white._ It is overwhelming. The walls, the floors, the drapes with sunlight pouring through them—untarnished, milky and smooth. My hands grip the sheets beneath me in an effort to ground myself. God, even the bed is a lacy, neutral palette. I close my eyes again because it is all too much. I just want to go back to the beginning, before the ambiguous flashbacks, when I felt pain but was aware of nothing else.

Now, in contrast, anxiety has begun pooling up beneath me like a sticky paste. I try to lift my head off the too-soft pillow but, even though my eyes are closed, everything begins spinning and I feel sharp pains in my neck, constricting further movement. Through the cottony dryness of my mouth I utter a low French expletive that barely makes it past my lips. The rough letters ricochet off my teeth and a tight cough erupts from my chest; it is hard to breathe again, and I feel trapped in this horribly bright room, the likes of which my eyelids do little to shield. I want to draw my legs up closer to me, sit straight against the headboard, lift myself off the mattress. Anything to feel like I have some control over whatever this situation is. But I am heavy. I let out a grunt as my brain murks through the idea of telling my body to snap into action.

“Are you an idiot?” The words push at the edge of my mind. “Don’t try to move.”

She reprimands me, slow but tangibly. It captures my attention. After a few long seconds of lying completely still, my eyes flutter open, and I carefully turn my head to try to focus my gaze. It is a while before I make out what seems to be a splash of blood against snow: Lorraine, perched on a pristine ivory chair, wearing an elegant red jacket over what I assume is an equally-fashionable black jumpsuit. 

She appears dressed to kill. It makes my heart skip a beat. Here she is, more stunning than ever, fleshed out by the vibrance of color among a colorless canvas. I like that the sight of her is different, expressive. I don’t like that she just sits there, staring without a trace of emotion.

“Why are you so far away?” I ask, voice cracking. I immediately regret trying to speak because I start coughing, and shit, it hurts. I go into a bit of a fit, not even trying to cover my coughs with a hand or an arm, letting the sound disrupt the quiet room.

At length, with a touch of sarcasm, she says dryly, “Flu’s going around.”

My eyes focus on her face. It occurs to me how angelic she looks at this moment. I mean, she always has an effect on me, but suddenly I can think of nothing except how perfect and beautiful Lorraine Broughton is. My mind is overrun by her flawlessness, by the fact that she is here, exactly when I need her to be, and even though I have no idea what is going on or where I am, it doesn’t matter. I feel like I’m floating, weightless. I feel like I cannot breathe, but not in a bad way, this time. I feel like I’m about to die. I want her. I want to be with her. My mouth moves before I can even think. “Is this what heaven is like?”

The woman stares at me for several seconds. She hasn’t looked me in the eyes, yet. It is more of a general appraisal, a onceover of my current condition, but it’s not enough for me. Now she is standing up and I don’t realize that she is walking away until it is too late to protest. She turns down a hallway that I am just now noticing; my jaw clenches. Lorraine can’t leave. I wish I could leap out of this bed and run after her, swing around the corner and reach out. I would loop my arms around her waist from behind and rest my head on her shoulder. I would never let her go again. I’ve already learned what losing her is like—my world slides out from under me, and I forget who I am, or rather, who I’ve been pretending to be.

How long ago was that? A night ago? A week? She’d shoved the UHF device into my chest. It was a small thing and didn’t look very malicious. It didn’t look like it’d been hiding in the lining of a coat, stalking us, reporting back to Percival. Fucking bastard.

 _“You have to leave while you can,”_ Lorraine had said. She didn’t understand that I would have rather died.

Something cold presses against my lips—it jolts me. A glass of water. I start to lift a shaky hand to take it, but her fingertips push into my wrist gently. She keeps them there, resting on the pulse point, as she tilts the glass so that I can take a sip. I stare at her throughout this short process and pay attention to the light thump of my heartbeat against her fingers. I am acutely aware of the way her touch had caused that heartbeat to speed up immediately. I also notice that her gaze is fixed upon a spot just below my mouth, not on my own eyes. After several moments, Lorraine’s hand begins stroking up my arm aimlessly. It reaches my shoulder and her thumb draws slow circles over the skin. Then her fingers swoop down below my collarbone, gentle as can be, calling goosebumps out of the small patch of skin. I wonder, for a minute, why her hands seem to be a little too light, a little too conscious, but then I swallow again, and the pain of that simple movement makes me think of the knife I’d stabbed into Percival’s back and how it hadn’t stopped him from attacking me, and the panic I’d felt as soon as I’d realized that I would never be able to give Lorraine a call and tell her that I’d finished the motherfucker off, and—

“No,” Lorraine says, her breath tickling my forehead as she leans down. Her green irises finally bore into my own eyes. I latch on to the contact like a starving refugee. I hadn’t realized how much I’ve been craving it. Lorraine has this fierce glare in hers that sparks something inside of me, fear or excitement or frustration. It’s almost as if she is daring me to look away. “Don’t you leave this room.”

Bewildered, I try to argue with her. “I can hardly even—”

“Don’t close your eyes,” she interrupts, “even for just a few seconds. I can see you trying to slip back into it.” I don’t know when both her hands returned to my wrists, which are lying at my sides, pinning them to the bed as if I would even try to get up at this point. Doesn’t she know that right here, under her full, undivided attention, is exactly where I want to be?

“Slip?” I ask thickly, moving my mouth around what feels like a jagged stone. “As in, slip away? Are you afraid I’ll die?” _Am_ I dying?

“Slip back to another place.” She tilts her head slightly, her voice becoming lighter, more meaningful. “Another time.” I’ve never heard her speak so fervently. She’s talking as if the universe might implode upon itself if I don’t hang on her every word. It makes my throat tighten. “All that matters,” she continues, “is right now.”

We don’t say anything for a bit. We just watch each other, a hint of wariness in the space between us. Lorraine’s face is illuminated by the sunlight that has begun spilling unapologetically into the white room. It is strange because I’m not used to seeing her in the daytime. Normally her expression would be darkened by shadows or distorted by the neon lighting. Now, the brightness reveals something that I have never seen before. It is unease. I can see it in the lines around her mouth and the fatigue under her eyes. There are also the remnants of a bruise over her eyebrow that I hadn’t been able to focus on until now.

“Well?” Lorraine is expectant, analyzing me. I don’t know what she thinks she will find in my expression. I feel that I could only look tired and confused. I gaze up at her.

“Well...what?” I ask, keeping my voice low. I watch her countenance shift into one of irritation. She pushes on my wrists lightly, not enough to hurt.

“Tell me you won’t go back there,” she says in her monotone. The carefully concealed urgency makes my toes curl of their own accord and my calves burn. As I watch her, I realize what, exactly, she means. She wants me to promise her. She wants me to promise her that I won’t think about what has happened.

For an inexplicable reason, I don’t want to indulge her. Not yet. 

I change the subject as smoothly as I can. “Will you help me get out of bed?”

Her eyes flash upon my request. Her grip on my wrists tightens. “No,” she says resolutely. 

“No?” I feel childlike.

“You’re in no condition. You need rest.” 

I look away, up at the ceiling because turning my head isn’t worth the pain. “You’re hurt, too.” Upon the second cracking of my voice, Lorraine releases one of my wrists and reaches for the glass of water again. She brings it over to me and up to my lips. I take the smallest of sips before finding the strength to continue speaking. “Maybe you should rest with me.”

The invitation is sincere. I would like her to lay here with me, slip underneath the covers. But something about Lorraine lets me know that isn’t going to happen right now. 

It’s that look, I think, behind her eyes. The one she is trying to hide. The one that calls to mind a dog who’s been abused; she’s just waiting for the next blow, her haunches up, her lips ready to snarl, and her teeth prepared to rip out a throat if need be. Lorraine brings the glass to her own mouth and takes a drink. “I can’t do that,” she answers me. She moves the glass in a small circle with her wrist as if it’s a glass of wine. Then, leaning down, she brushes a loose strand of hair out of my face. Her touch sends prickles down my body.

“Why?” I am ready for the look on her face, the one that is asking, yet again, how I can be so naive.

Her hand lingers on my cheek. “I have some things to take care of. And nobody can know you’re here.”

I strain to wet my chapped lips. It is not at all the sultry motion I can, under normal circumstances, pull off with a certain amount of charisma. “And...where is here?” I want the answer, but I want her to keep talking to me even more.

She doesn’t give me the response I desire. Instead, she looks at me with eyes that are unreadable. I can’t tell if she’s doing that on purpose or not. “I have to go, Delphine,” she begins, giving the bed an informal pat. Her body rustles with the intent of rising. “I’m sorry that it’s so soon.” It’s rare to hear her apologize.

“Lorraine, where is here?” I persist, my defiance managing to poke through the holes of my fragile state. The other woman’s voice takes on an authoritative tone, low and matter-of-fact.

“I’ll be back later. Stay in bed, unless you have to use the lavatory.” The British term seems to get stuck on her tongue, much like my own words had earlier. As if it feels unnatural for her to say. “If you do, one of my people is here to help you. Just press this button.” From the side of the bed, she pulls out a small pad attached to a cord and sets it right next to my hand on the mattress. The action makes me feel even more like a child, or like a grandmother who can’t remember her own name or how to put on her clothes. I am neither. I can now feel my adrenaline pumping and am aware of the blood flushing my face. For a moment, at least, I feel strong and capable. “There is a kitchen, with food and water. All you have to do is ask. If you can’t speak, he’ll give you a pen and notepad.”

She moves to get up. Strenuously, as a fresh bolt of pain rips up my arm, I place a hand on her thigh. It causes her to halt all movement, staring first at my hand and then at me. I put as much strength as I can muster into my stare. “I don’t want you to go.” Okay, so maybe I do sound like a child. Maybe now I know why Lorraine is suddenly looking like someone punched her in the gut.

“I know,” she replies, and it seems like she is trying to convey more. Lorraine stands, and the bed feels too light and empty without her filling that space. I don’t know what else to say, but my lips utter the first thing that feels good to them.

“Lorraine.” It is better than cursing. I could say her name a million times and never grow tired of it. She has already reached the doorway, but then her head pivots, eyes connecting with mine. She says nothing, so I fill in the blanks with what I have been fearing from the beginning. “Is this all just a dream?”

Because I know it cannot be real. The peace of this place, the strangeness of the broad daylight, it is all too abstract. I have never felt more out of my body, despite the stinging pains, or more out of touch with reality. And now, Lorraine smiles, actually shows teeth for a brief instance, and a bird chirps from somewhere outside of the window. 

“Yes.” She raises an eyebrow, gives me one more long stare. But then she is turning and walking out of the room and disappearing down the hallway. 

I curve my fingertips into the bedsheets. The loss of Lorraine’s presence is immediately pronounced. The white room seems pale and ghostly and the sereneness is anything but calming. Without Lorraine, left to my own devices, my mind quickly returns to the memories that have been lurking in the corner this entire time. The other woman didn’t want me to go back to them, but I never promised.

If only I’d been able to grab my gun, then this story would be different. I’d held my own, considering. I’d thrown the pillow off the bed and ripped off his mask, stripped him of his anonymity. Still, my cries had rung on deaf ears, the wind had been ferociously knocked out of my lungs, and my last moments had been stark and terrifying. And more real than anything in this blank room feels right now. Maybe I really am in heaven, or some place beyond the realm of life. I’d never planned on being able to get to heaven, per se, so it would surprise me if this was it. I also don’t think you can feel pain, in heaven.

I don’t think you can feel like your heart is being ripped out of your chest.

And now Lorraine is gone and I should have listened to her in the first place, should have gotten out of Berlin while I had the chance, should have taken a train back to Paris and forgotten about her and moved on with my life, done something different, because God knows I was never cut out for this.

I don’t even realize that I’ve been crying until a soft hand wipes the tears away. I open my eyes and see her, Lorraine, back in the room with me, hovering above the bed. I’m not sure how much time has passed, if she’s been gone all day or has just popped back in because she’d forgotten something on her way out. Slowly, quietly, she slides on top of the covers until her body presses into mine, one hand cradling my head and the other running a finger over my cheek. I take a shaky breath, and fuck, I’m tired of it hurting when I do that. Lorraine presses lips against my forehead wordlessly. She doesn’t tell me to stop crying; she doesn’t ask for any more promises. Faintly, I feel rather than hear what she says next.

“You’re home.”

Of course, if this is all just a dream, then that was purely my own imagination.


End file.
